Page 45

"No." His voice is soft, almost tender. "The past is what created us. Created him. Created this." His free hand presses against my lower belly, and I know he's thinking about Nikolai, about the life we made together in that hotel room six years ago.

I want to argue, to tell him he's wrong, but his mouth finds mine again before I can form the words. This kiss is different—slower, deeper, more thorough. He takes his time, mapping every inch of my mouth with his tongue, swallowing the small sounds I can't quite suppress.

His hands are already working at the buttons of my dress, clever fingers making quick work of the fastenings despite the way I'm pressed against the wall. The silk is expensive, probably worth more than I used to make in a month, but neither of us cares as it pools at my feet.

Standing before him in nothing but my undergarments, I should feel exposed, vulnerable. Instead, I feel powerful. The way he's looking at me, like I'm something precious and dangerous all at once, makes me feel like I could conquer armies.

"Beautiful," he breathes, hands skimming over my skin like he's memorizing every inch. His palms are warm, slightly rough from whatever manual work he still does despite his position. "So fucking beautiful."

His shirt is expensive too, Italian silk that probably costs more than most people's rent, but I don't care as I tear atthe buttons. Some of them ping against the floor, lost in the shadows, but he helps me, shrugging out of the fabric and letting it fall beside my dress.

In the lamplight, his skin is golden, marked with scars that tell stories I don't know but can guess at. There's a tattoo over his heart—Cyrillic script in elegant black ink. Another spans his ribs, and I can see the edge of something larger disappearing beneath his trousers.

"What does it say?" I ask, tracing the letters over his heart with one finger.

His hand covers mine, pressing my palm flat against his chest where I can feel his heartbeat, strong and rapid. "????? ??????? ?????."

Family above all. Of course it does.

"Is that why you're doing this? Taking Nikolai, forcing me to stay?"

"Partly." His other hand slides up my back, finding the clasp of my bra with practiced ease. "But not entirely."

The lace joins the growing pile of clothing on the floor, and then his mouth is on my breast, tongue swirling around the peak until I arch against him with a sound that's half gasp, half moan. He's thorough, patient in a way that makes me want to scream. Every touch is calculated to drive me higher, to make me need him more.

His teeth graze my nipple, just hard enough to make me cry out, and then he soothes the sting with his tongue. The sensation shoots straight through me, making my knees weak and my core clench with want.

"Rolan." His name is a plea, a demand, a prayer all at once.

"Tell me what you want, Anya."

The words stick in my throat. What I want is complicated, dangerous, wrapped up in years of hurt and longing and fear. What I want is him, but also freedom. Safety for my son, butalso this fire that burns between us. I want things that contradict each other, that can't coexist in the same reality.

"You," I finally manage. "I want you."

It's not enough. I can see it in his eyes, the way he's waiting for more. He wants my complete surrender, wants me to admit that this is about more than just physical need. But I can't give him that. Not when I don't even understand it myself.

Instead, I reach for his belt, working the leather free with hands that aren't quite steady. The metal buckle is cool against my fingers, a sharp contrast to the heat radiating from his skin. He lets me work, watching my face as I fumble with the fastenings, and when I finally free him from the confines of his trousers, the sound he makes is purely male satisfaction.

He's beautiful naked, all lean muscle and controlled power. The scars that mark his torso tell stories of violence, of a life lived on the edge of danger, but they don't detract from his appeal. If anything, they make him more compelling, more real. More mine, though I'll never say that aloud.

When he lifts me, I wrap my legs around his waist instinctively. The wall is cool against my back, exquisite compared to the heat of his body pressed against mine. My remaining underwear—a scrap of silk that probably cost more than my old car—disappears with one sharp tug of his hand.

He pauses then, forehead resting against mine, and for a moment we just breathe together. I can feel him against me, hard and ready, but he doesn't move, doesn't take what I'm so clearly offering.

"Last chance," he says, voice rough with want. "If you're going to change your mind, do it now."

The gentleness in his tone undoes me more than any demand could have. This is him giving me a choice, even now, even when we're both too far gone to think clearly. Even when he holds all the cards and I have nothing left to bargain with.

"I'm not changing my mind."

He enters me slowly, carefully, watching my face for any sign of discomfort. There's none, only the exquisite sensation of being filled, completed, claimed in the most fundamental way possible. I've forgotten how it feels to be stretched this way, to accommodate someone so perfectly suited to my body.

"Christ, Anya." His voice is strained, like he's barely holding onto control. "You feel incredible. Perfect."

I can't form words, can only hold onto his shoulders as he begins to move. Each thrust is deliberate, controlled, designed to drive me higher while he maintains that maddening restraint. The wall behind me provides leverage, and I use it, meeting him stroke for stroke until we find a rhythm that makes stars explode behind my closed eyes.

His mouth finds my throat, teeth scraping against the sensitive skin there. I know he's marking me, claiming me in a way that will be visible tomorrow, but I can't bring myself to care. Not when every nerve ending in my body is singing, not when he's hitting that spot inside me that makes coherent thought impossible.